You probably think I hate all skinny people. Not true. I have a certain affection for people who can’t fill out the seat of a pair of jeans. I mean, if there’s such a thing as too fat, there’s such a thing as too thin. Slim fit that description. His name tag read Tim. Slim Tim. His hair was greasy, slicked to the side, and he had pimples over baby-smooth skin.
“I’m looking for something,” I said, gazing out over the product selection.
He gazed too, like that was all the info I was going to give him and he was going to have to figure it out. This guy seemed like I could sell him oceanfront property in Oklahoma, so I said, “Listen, I have a grandmother. Ethel. She’s ninety-two. Think humpback whale, except in minnow form.”
Slim stared in front of us, picturing it.
“Grandma lives alone and looks like she couldn’t fight off a grasshopper, but I tell ya, she’s one heck of a fighter. One heck of a fighter.”
Slim turned to me, nodding.
“So what I’m needing is something for her birthday. Something she’ll really enjoy. But also something she could defend herself with should robbers break in. Are you catching my vision?”
He was nodding, but his eyes were saying no.
“Let’s say she’s knitting and a robber breaks down her front door. What can she stab him with?”
“Her knitting needle?”
He had a point. “Well, she doesn’t really knit. I was just thinking out loud there, trying to give an example. She mostly just sits and flips through
Reader’s Digest
, which really couldn’t be used to self-defend. But yes, something like a knitting needle. You have knitting needles?”
“No. Sorry. We do have long, skinny suckers.”
I was pretty sure I was staring at one, but I only smiled and nodded. “Yes. That would be good. But would probably not be as effective as, say . . . a cane with a retractable spike. Something like that. Have anything spiked?”
“Just our holiday apple cider mix. Have to be twenty-one or older to purchase.”
Slim was killing me here. Then suddenly he raised a finger with such authority that I looked up because I thought he was pointing to something. “I’ve got it!”
“Really?”
“Yes! What about a letter opener?”
Now
he was thinking. “That might work. Indeed. If it’s stainless steel.”
“It is. It’s a popular item. It’s over here in the corner by the window.”
Oh, boy. I had to follow, squeezing between stacks of puzzles and porcelain plates with big signs that said, “You break, you buy!” I actually had to lift my stomach over a stack of mugs, but finally we got there. I was out of breath.
He reached around a display of stationery to get the letter opener for me and presented it like it was something of value.
“Perrrfect—wait.”
I’d reached out to touch it, eyeing the glimmering stainless steel blade, when I suddenly noticed the handle. It had flowers and light bursting from a cloud and . . .
“Is this . . . ?”
“A letter opener? Yes.”
“What’s on the handle?”
“Flowers. Grandmas like flowers, right?”
“No, no. I mean, it’s a painting, right?”
He studied it. “Looks like it.”
“Is it Thomas Kinkade?”
He didn’t seem to know who I was talking about.
“The Painter of Light?”
He shook his head, confused, but said, “Let me get the box.” He reached for it, read it, and nodded. “You’re in luck! It sure is!”
I rolled my eyes, covering my mouth as my fingers scratched my cheek.
“She’s allergic to flowers?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .” How to explain this. I had a conviction here that was kind of ruining my murder plot. I really couldn’t do it. I couldn’t murder someone with a Thomas Kinkade piece. The guilt would be overwhelming. The irony would suffocate me.
I glanced up, trying to figure myself out, when I saw a toy gun nearby. I gestured toward it. “What about that?”
“What?” Slim asked.
“That gun. See it right there?”
“The one with the plastic badge and felt cowboy hat?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” Wrapped in a cloth napkin, I might be able to sell the idea I had a real one.
Slim eyed me. “It’s not real.”
“Yes, yes. I kind of gathered that by the ‘three and over’ warning. But maybe Grandma could
scare
them away. Point it to the ceiling. Shout obscenities. Maybe stick it under her robe.”
Slim stared at it, carefully considering. “I don’t think so. It looks pretty plastic.”
“True. But if she’s waving it wildly, back and forth like so . . .” I waved my hand in the air and then . . .
crash.
Like some kind of synchronized swim routine, an entire stack of sunflower and pitchfork plates slid off the shelf between us, one right after another, until not a plate was left. The room grew eerily silent.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. The fat guy did it, right? I swiveled my hip and hit an entire stack of sunflower and pitchfork plates?
But it wasn’t me. I stared at Slim, whose eyes told me everything I needed to know. I owned that look, many times over, from my days working as a waiter at a Mexican restaurant, as a clerk at a fine china store at the mall, and as a baker at a specialty chocolate shop.
The look said,
It’s coming out of my paycheck.
And having worked in retail, I knew there’s not much paycheck there. It also told me this wasn’t the first time that poor Slim had broken something.
Twenty minutes later, after a long but not particularly helpful apology to the manager, I walked out of the Cracker Barrel carrying a large trash sack filled with twenty broken plates that the manager graciously discounted by 10 percent.
Slim hurried after me. “Sir . . . sir?”
I turned. “Yes?”
He stared at his boots. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.”
“Why would you do that for me? I knocked those over. We both saw it.”
“You know what?” I smiled. “It was kind of just satisfying knowing that for once I was the one who didn’t do it.”
He sighed. “I’ve always been a klutz. I’m like an unintentional weapon.”
I laughed. “I know what you mean. You more like a bullet. Me more like a four-hundred-ton bomb. But I get it.”
He pitched his hand over his shoulder. “I best get back in there. Thanks.” He shook my hand and hurried into the store. I won’t lie to you—I had that warm and fuzzy feeling inside. But if life experience has taught me anything, it is that warm and fuzzy always grows cold and bristly.
With one hefty lift, I managed to get the trash sack into the trunk of the Hummer. I stood there, catching my breath for a moment. But then it hit me hard, like reflux after three-alarm chili.
Unintentional weapon.
I dug through the sack, lifting a large, triangular piece out. It was sharp. Real sharp. The sun made it kind of dazzle.
I’d found my murder weapon. And it only cost me $207.48.
I’m not a cold, hard killing machine, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m actually not hard at all, anywhere, with the exception of my arteries. And I’m also never cold. My core body temperature rests at ninety-nine degrees, even in subzero weather. I’m soft and hot, like a Sara Lee dinner roll. I just need you to understand where I’m coming from.
What I am is a believer in justice. And as far as I can tell, justice has not been served. People are getting away with pure, unadulterated rottenness and not paying a price for it. At least most murderers get sent to jail. But what do you do with the guy who basically murders your soul? Where are the soul police?
I’ll tell you where they are. Turning a blind eye while living the high life in big houses, with fancy cars. They’ve bullied their way up the ranks and now are living in conscienceless luxury.
In a way, I’m a hero. Not the kind that wears spandex obviously. Not the kind that gets medals and awards and a banquet thrown in his honor. But the kind that shifts through the shadows, a kind of Robin Hood to the pip-squeaks of the world. Before I met Beth, I probably couldn’t have done this. But she gave me the confidence I always knew I had but couldn’t quite squeeze out of myself.
That’s why her momentary breakdown and disillusions about our marriage are being met with tremendous grace from me. She did a lot for my self-esteem, which was low even before I hit three hundred. You can only imagine it now.
No, it’s not Beth who deserves vengeance. A person can only do so much with a tormented soul. The person who caused the soul to be tormented . . . that’s the guy who deserves what he gets.
I entered the Wichita city limits and my heart started racing in the exact way my doctor said it would right before a heart attack. I had to assume he hadn’t considered that this also might happen on the way to murder someone. My arm wasn’t going numb and my chest wasn’t hurting, so I drove on, guided by the lovely, robotic voice of my GPS.
I stopped at a traffic light and pulled out the little book on pocket watches, scanning the terms again. As real as Constant was, his idea that these watch terms were going to be especially helpful to me was striking me as completely inaccurate. My gaze landed on the word
damascening
. “The detailed engraving many watch companies put on their movements—an art form in its own right. May come from the word
Damascus
, with the underlying meaning that it is given its personality, such as all that God has put into a person, his characteristics, etc.”
Well, God must’ve skipped right over the engraving of Abbott McClain.
The next term,
ébauche
, looked interesting and also, if I could use it in a sentence, might make me sound extremely sharp. It referred to a style of unfinished watch movement that was mass-produced by various Swiss companies in the mid to late 1800s. These watches were then shipped to retailers or jewelers who finished the watches by adding the dials, the hands, the case, the jewels, the escapement (no idea what that was), and more. My eyes read the last line: “Quite often the name engraved on a European watch from this period is that of the retailer and not of the company that actually made the watch itself.” Huh. That was interesting. It seemed a little unfair for someone to make a thing and then not get credit for it. Sure, you can put on all the bells and whistles, but it’s the core of how the watch is made that really counts.
And that was what Abbott McClain was lacking. A core. A soul, maybe. When I’d looked into his eyes that cold winter day, there was nothing there but meanness.
“Two point eight miles,” Mandy said. I’d named her Mandy because she sounded like Beth’s best friend from high school.
Two miles and I’d be there. I glanced at my murder weapon in the passenger seat, sitting right next to my Thomas Kinkade coaster set. I had to start thinking now, start figuring out exactly how this was all going to go down. Was I going to ring the doorbell and, as soon as he answered, just stab the thing right into his gut? Or maybe his carotid artery? Or should I make small talk first, hope that he invited me in? Have some tea and biscotti first? Shoot, maybe I should just ask for the caviar and wine. Why not take this guy for as much as he’s worth before I kill him?
There was the small problem of his wife and kids. That would be in awfully poor taste to do it in front of them. I might have to tie them up in a closet. But I was probably going to need more than the broken plate. I was going to need incentive for them to do exactly what I said.
A bomb. Yeah. I’m hiding a bomb under all this. I’ll blow everybody up if you don’t cooperate.
I might even fudge and say I was just after the crystal. That way everyone would cooperate. If I said, “Hey, get in the closet ’cause I’m going to murder your husband,” I’m not sure the bomb would have the same effect.
But what dude goes in with a bomb while trying to get crystal? That didn’t even make sense. Wait, not crystal. Copper. Yeah, I was there for the copper wiring. Copper was all the rage these days.
Either way, I knew if I got my “crazy eyes” on, the adrenaline might keep them from thinking straight. I had to keep everyone from thinking straight, including myself. There was a good chance my conscience would kick in and I couldn’t let that happen under any circumstance.
“Your destination is point two miles ahead.” I blinked and screeched to a halt. I hadn’t even realized I was in a neighborhood. I’d turned right at some point, I guess, blindly following Mandy to my final destination.
I gazed forward. These houses were humongous. The lots had to be several acres wide. Ahead, probably exactly point two miles, was a large colonial-style house that seemed better suited for Raleigh than Wichita. It was all white. A short iron fence circled it. Even in this hot July weather, the grass was lush and green like it hailed from Ireland.
“Your destination is point two miles ahead.”
“I know, Mandy. I’m thinking. I can’t just pull up with no plan.” My chest was heaving. This was kind of ridiculous. So amateur. I just took a two-and-a-half-hour drive to kill a man, and instead of plotting it out, I spent it remembering Beth and “the good ole days” and reliving childhood moments that were best left buried.
“Your destination is point two miles ahead.”
“Shut up, Mandy.” I pulled the Hummer out of park and slowly rolled forward. Luckily I was in a vehicle that probably wouldn’t draw a lot of attention in this neighborhood, though someone might notice it cruising along at only three miles an hour. I tried to take it all in as I rolled past: oddly short iron fence and gate that, even so, I could never climb in a million years . . . but the gate was wide open. Long driveway, trees on both sides, leading to a small parking lot on the side of the house. You’d think a house this size would spring for a double front door, but no. One lousy door. Looked small, too—too small. Maybe a reason to just go ahead and drop him right on the front porch.
As I trailed away, I glanced back for any other detail that might be helpful. Nothing came to mind except that gate. It was wide, wide open. How much longer would it be that way? This might be my only window to get in. I thought for a moment about parking the car down the street, sneaking in and hiding somewhere, but there’s not a lot this big guy can hide behind, if you know what I mean.